for Harvey, and said he'd told in it where his money was hid, and how he wanted the rest of the property divided up so George's g'yirls would be all right--for George didn't leave nothing.  And that letter was all they could get him to put a pen to.” “Why do you reckon Harvey don't come?  Wher' does he live?” “Oh, he lives in England--Sheffield--preaches there--hasn't ever been in this country.  He hasn't had any too much time--and besides he mightn't a got the letter at all, you know.” “Too bad, too bad he couldn't a lived to see his brothers, poor soul. You going to Orleans, you say?” “Yes, but that ain't only a part of it.  I'm going in a ship, next Wednesday, for Ryo Janeero, where my uncle lives.” “It's a pretty long journey.  But it'll be lovely; wisht I was a-going. Is Mary Jane the oldest?  How old is the others?” “Mary Jane's nineteen, Susan's fifteen, and Joanna's about fourteen--that's the one that gives herself to good works and has a hare-lip.” “Poor things! to be left alone in the cold world so.” “Well, they could be worse off.  Old Peter had friends, and they ain't going to let them come to no harm.  There's Hobson, the Babtis' preacher; and Deacon Lot Hovey, and Ben Rucker, and Abner Shackleford, and Levi Bell, the lawyer; and Dr. Robinson, and their wives, and the widow Bartley, and--well, there's a lot of them; but these are the ones that Peter was thickest with, and used to write about sometimes, when he wrote home; so Harvey 'll know where to look for friends when he gets here.” Well, the old man went on asking questions till he just fairly emptied that young fellow.  Blamed if he didn't inquire about everybody and everything in that blessed town, and all about the Wilkses; and about Peter's business--which was a tanner; and about George's--which was a carpenter; and about Harvey's--which was a dissentering minister; and so on, and so on.  Then he says: “What did you want to walk all the way up to the steamboat for?” “Because she's a